Stockholm Syndrome
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' Johnlock slash. Stockholm syndrome - when the captive falls in love with their captor. Sherlock's doing another experiment...


**Stockholm Syndrome**

SherlockxJohn

(BBC Sherlock)

He sipped the perfectly boiling tea and cringed a little but sank back into the armchair all the same. It was just right – not too weak, not too strong, not too sweet, and not cold, of course. If there was one thing John Watson hated it was a cold cup of tea.

Sherlock watched him intently, his hands loosely clasped together, making John a little suspicious but he was used to Sherlock by now. However, he wasn't used to that smirk he wore – that self-satisfied, completely confident, almost secretive smile spread across his thin lips.

"What is it?" John asked finally, tapping his fingers against the side of the mug before downing the rest, and sighing as he wished for more.

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows. "You'll see," he informed, his voice low and husky and almost… expectant?

Watson was suddenly tired and set the mug down on the side table and curled up in the chair. He rolled his shoulder and yawned. "This better not be… one of your Goddamn experiments… But thanks for the tea... Mind if I take a nap?"

"Please do."

John didn't feel completely comfortable about this but he was so tired… his eyes shut, slowly, dreamily… and in seconds he was asleep…

And that was when Sherlock stood up.

His dreams were crazily colourful, laced with wine and sex and rollercoasters. He licked jam from his lips and turned up the music, dancing clumsily but not giving a damn as the coaster reached its peak then soared down, down, down, as his heart lurched in his chest and he screamed with excitement. Suddenly the ground was the sky and the clouds were below him as it twisted and his head spun and he had to shut his eyes. He giggled like a child and threw his arms up.

When he woke up he clung to the fabrics of his subconscious imagination, keeping his eyes closed and the smile on his face until he realised just how cold he was. A chilly breeze drifted across his skin, making him shiver and instinctively jerk for the covers.

Instead he just felt rope, gritty and controlling against his wrists. He tugged at his legs but found the same problem. Panicking he assumed Moriarty – or even Mycroft – had kidnapped him. He licked at the gag and found it to be oddly soft: cashmere? None of it made sense. He did not open his eyes. He was scared of what he might see.

He concentrated on his physical feelings rather than emotions. No pain. No cuts, wounds, gashes, bleeding, bullets or stabs.

Quite the opposite.

He didn't know whether to relax or struggle when he felt the tenderness of his groin, radiating through him, the only source of heat, and he could feel the cold air around his member like it longed for him. He could feel the cool, soft saliva on his thighs.

He tried to yell through the gag but only mumbled.

"Sh," the voice commanded, a hand delicately touching his cheek, the tenderness and the warmth calming and alluring him like a kitten with catnip. He licked his lip and shut his eyes. He couldn't stand not talking, and the dominant man knew that as he chuckled at John's mumbles. "Open your eyes," he ordered.

Nothing could prepare John for the sight of Sherlock stood over him, naked and erect and staring him down.

He tried to shout but Sherlock's scarf held him speechless; he could smell it now – the scent of chemicals and aftershave and danger. John trembled a little, and Sherlock just raised his eyebrows, and moved his hands round to reveal the riding crop. John groaned, and at this stage he wasn't sure if it was in fear or pleasure. He just knew there was no escape.

Sherlock pressed his index finger to John's neck, feeling his pulse strongly pumping blood to certain parts of his body. Satisfied he lowered himself to kneel next to the bedside, measuring the doctor's pulse as it increased dramatically, and as he ran his tongue delicately over the soldier's neck it only thudded harder. John squirmed and arched his back slightly, leaning into Sherlock's kiss.

Sherlock nipped at the skin and jumped up, straddling John in an instant, leaning close, riding crop held tight in his grip as he trailed it along the inside of his partner's thigh. John clenched his teeth, twitched, tried to somehow get the gag out of his mouth; he rubbed his head back against the pillow, trying to lift the back and slip the knot over his head, but his plan backfired. Sherlock seized his neck, holding his chin upright as he lowered himself to John's chest, kissing feverishly, leaving love bites trailing down to his nipples which he licked gently, spurred on by John's moans that were becoming more and more desperate.

Whenever John tried to take a breath, it became a hot pant against the scarf, and the scent infused him as he trembled below Sherlock, begging him… not to stop…

It was like Stockholm syndrome – he was terrified, trapped, and definitely tortured, but he loved every second of it…

_Sherlock syndrome… _he thought weakly, and then bit back a yelp as the riding crop whipped down on his belly. He jerked, tugging at his restraints instinctively, but Sherlock just tore the gag off and put one finger to his lips.

"Easy now," he told him quietly, and John almost strained to hear that honey voice of his, seeping through him, intoxicating him. "Don't hurt yourself. That's my job."

John drew a shaky breath and shut his eyes, hearing Sherlock's deep chuckle of desire mixed with control, complete and utter control. He couldn't talk now. His lust was his own gag. Sherlock pulled him up slightly, drew their lips closer, touched gently, licked, and then finally leant into John and took him over, his tongue darting feverishly against the army doctor's, pulling him closer with sheer pleasure, feeling John's sighs and moans through him, one hand holding John up, the other clutching the riding crop, jerking his wrist to strike John's waist, over and over and over…

John bucked against the ropes, panting into Sherlock's cheeks as Sherlock continued to kiss the side of his lips, nipping and sucking. He dropped the crop, dug his nails into John's waist, and he heaved again, and this time begging, "Sh-Sherlock…"

His free hand roamed, down, so teasingly close that John licked his lip urgently, clenching his eyes tight. He leaned closer to his ear, and whispered, "Louder."

John panted again, his exhale trembling along with his body. It felt like he needed to shout, to scream, but he couldn't – all he could think was to plead with Sherlock, just to make him… do it. He rocked his hips towards Sherlock's hand needful of his caress. "Please…" he murmured. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, please…"

He dug his nails into his neck, watching him intently as he gasped for air and begged and pleaded. His fingertips played on John's end, slick with John's desire, but movements gentle. He rubbed his thumb gently and John moaned louder.

"Sherlock, do it!" he yelled at last, and Sherlock seized him, so tight John could hardly breathe for a moment before he started the movement, steady, hard, trained, and then faster. He savoured the touch – both of them did.

Sherlock buried his head into John's neck again, he himself cringing through a smirk of enjoyment, trying to hold himself back from his want just to-

John cried out and Sherlock jerked forward, barely holding himself up as he tried to avoid-

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John yelped as he tightened his grip a little too much.

"You know you like it," Sherlock growled, and looked up into John's eyes, seeing him weak and powerless, and yet he was fast becoming the same way. John knew. One more plead and Sherlock would-

"Oh God!" he shouted, throwing his head back, just as he felt warmth running along his belly, so hot, so smooth, and Sherlock's hand grasped tighter again and John bucked and writhed, panting and gasping, eyes tightly closed, and he released himself and fisted his hands, feeling the sweat on his palms, still smelling that danger that was Sherlock Holmes.

The detective literally fell off of John, rolling onto the bed beside him, breathing deeply, lightheaded and post-climactic as he laughed to himself. John soon joined in.

"Dear… God…" John panted, biting his own lip, only now beginning to feel the bruises and bites along his chest and hip. He relaxed into his ties, letting his arms strain against the ropes and hang limp. "You could've… just said… you wanted to fuck…"

"Where's the fun in that?" Sherlock replied, chuckling. "And you know you… agree… I'd say that experiment… was a success…"

"Experiment?" John questioned, looking over but still struggling for breath.

"Stockholm syndrome," Sherlock informed him. "You've got it…"

John just laughed. "I knew it…"

Sherlock blinked round at him. "That time… that time Moriarty kidnapped you… You didn't-"

"Of course not," John cut in. "Only you… It's only ever… you…"

Sherlock rolled onto his side and pressed against John, wrapping his arms around him, before remembering the ropes and quickly and nimbly undoing them, freeing John's hands. They hugged, breathing deeply still, until they were settled and sufficiently sleepy.

"So it's more… Sherlock syndrome," John joked, full-knowing how cheesy it sounded.

Sherlock agreed with a gentle kiss on the forehead, snuggling closer to him, and soon they were both sound asleep.


End file.
